


Anger, serenity, and the spaces in between

by appleseed



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles POV, F/F, Fix-it fic, Gen, Long, M/M, author does not know what editing is, heavy on plot, no really this is abnormally long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleseed/pseuds/appleseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Cuba, things are going to change - at least if Charles has any say in the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anger, serenity, and the spaces in between

**Author's Note:**

> I'm meant to be writing 'Circumstances will Improve', but while I was in the middle of doing so, I had an unexpected episode of hospitalisation. Once I recovered, I tried to write again but realised I had lost my mojo for that story; then I found it again, but ran into massive writer's block (I swear my life is a comedy of errors). In the meantime, I found myself writing this, because I just want my babies to be happy - my fluff complex, let me show it to you; having said that, I also love angst, the kind that makes me weep and wish Charles - or Erik, I'm not picky - would let me love him; or they could love each other, I don't mind (as long as I can watch).
> 
> I've taken some liberties with the time frame, and with the presence of various X-Men characters in this story. Hopefully the character voices found here bear some resemblance to those actually found in canon. Please forgive all of the many and varied faults you're bound to come across; I'm nowhere near the calibre of writer that I enjoy reading on this site so often. Also, oh my goodness, how difficult do I find it to write sex? Like, seriously, it's a nightmare. Clearly this is a sign I need to have some on a more regular basis.
> 
> This is for all Cherik fans, whose fics and art found here, on the First Kink meme on LJ and in the Cherik tag on Tumblr, are a daily source of inspiration. Thanks, you guys ♥

~~~~

January 1st, 1962

 

As always, it's the thoughts of other people rather than his own that wake him up. They whisper at the edges of his consciousness, coalescing into a rather unpleasant wakeup call. Charles is hungover and tetchy, and has absolutely no plans to get out of bed until at least noon.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He won't go back to sleep now; instead, he lets his mind wander. It's New Year's Day, the start of another year. What will this year bring? He wants to finish his thesis and, hopefully, take up the teaching position that he knows will become vacant in the summer. He will keep an eye on Raven and maybe even try to find a pretty girl to make him both look respectable (in the eyes of the world, at least) and reasonably content with life.

They're not big plans, but they are _his_ , and he'd very much like it if at least one of them came to fruition.

However, Charles cannot ignore the nagging at the edge of his mind that makes him wonder if maybe, just maybe, there is more to life than this. How could there not be, with the wonderful possibility that mutation brings to the future? There's also the worry that with this life he has carved out for himself, he is missing out on something; he doesn't know what it is, but that's part of the problem.

Raven knocks on the door, and Charles gets up to make breakfast for both of them, and pretends that everything is fine.

 ~~~~

 It's a terrible thing, the anger of a telepath.

Nothing else can compare to it, not when the power inherent in that particular mutation means that you can't tell the difference between what is real and what is not.

The ground shifts beneath your feet like sand. You reach for what you think you know, the familiar things and realise, horrified, that there's nothing there.

You scream, but a tiny corner of your mind knows that no-one else can hear you.

~~~~

Charles doesn't remember the first month he spent in hospital after Cuba, through a combination of the drugs they used to keep him sedated and his mind's recognition of the need to protect itself. He remembers snatches of things, blurry and indistinct – white walls, noise, gentle hands, worry – almost as though he's seeing them through glass at speed. Other than that, he remains in a state of almost total loss of consciousness, the way that he had been on the beach when the pain from the bullet in his spine spiked upwards to meet the pain still locked inside his skull and knocked him out.

He regains consciousness slowly, but even then he knows his own diagnosis before anyone actually tells him. There's another two months spent in hospital at the insistence of the doctors before he can even plan to go anywhere; he “needs to be built up”, they say, and Charles resists the urge to laugh. If there's nothing there to be built up in the first place, that's hardly going to be a successful endeavour. How does anyone come back from being shot in the spine by people previously deemed as friends and being paralysed as a result?

Eventually, the doctors can find no reason to keep him in hospital and reluctantly release him into the care of the ragtag bunch of people usually found in Charles's private room.

Charles has acknowledged their presence, nothing more. He is caught between existing and living, his paralysis seeping into every aspect of his life, every corner of his mind; there is nothing beyond it or ahead of it.

On a cold January morning, Charles arrives back at Westchester and wonders how its possible for something to change so much and yet not change at all. It's he who has changed, of course, but it seems easier to project all of his feelings about that onto a pile of bricks and furniture. Hank greets them and wheels Charles into the front hall, the others piling in behind him, and clears his throat.

“Professor?”

“Yes, Hank?” Charles already knows what he's going to say, because Hank always lets him into his mind. Dear, genius Hank. But he wants the others to know what Hank's going to say; he wants them to see _what they did_.

“I hope you don't mind, but while you were in hospital, I made some alterations to the mansion.”

Hank had not visited him; Charles understood. Being seven feet tall and covered in blue fur was not something anyone else would be quite ready for; he could've altered their perceptions, of course, but that would've required Hank to actually visit in person.

Hank talks as they move, explaining about the elevator and the alterations to the Professor's bathroom and bedroom, the new labs and a hospital bay, plans for a new Cerebro. Charles absorbs it all, not really listening; instead he is trying not to look at Erik, or Raven, or Moira. Conflicting emotions about all three of them that he has not yet addressed are pushing their way to the surface and he knows, deep down, that something will have to be done about them.

Charles thanks Hank, and requests a tour of the elevator with only him for company, giving him a chance to question his young friend about medical matters that will now take up a large portion of each day. Hank is scientific and unembarrassed about the whole thing, for which Charles is very grateful.

He takes dinner in his room and settles in to think.

~~~~

Charles hears an argument one day; its participants are Hank, Raven and Erik, and the subject is him – or, more specifically, his health. Mentally he rewinds through Hank's thoughts to see how the argument began; Raven fretting about the fact that he hasn't been eating, is he alright, why won't he say how he's doing – Hank's dry retort that all of a sudden she is concerned about him, and not before – Raven's defensiveness – Erik backing her up (<<of course, of course, always those two together>>) – now, from the hallway outside the lab, Charles can hear tears seeping into Raven's voice as she pleads with Hank to talk to Charles about what he's eating, it's not enough, he hardly finishes a meal.

He's noticed, of course; he doesn't have the appetite for anything at all, and the size of his meal portions has become symptomatic of that. The plates on which his meals are served have also become smaller, as if to disguise the fact, and Sean is always trying to encourage him to eat 'just a little more'.

Hank asks why Raven simply doesn't ask her own brother what's wrong, and Raven laughs, and wonders how someone so smart can be so dense. Erik is a silent, glowering presence in the room; Hank is not intimidated in the least.

Charles doesn't want to hear any more and wheels away down the hallway as quietly as he came.

Later, at dinner, he finishes his meal (<<lasagne, cooked very well, the pesto was a surprise>>) and sets his cutlery on his plate. Sean's eyes flicker but don't look at him, and it is he who Charles addresses when he says, “That was very nice. I think I might have a little more.” Relief sweeps around the room, and Sean's smile is blinding when he sets the dish beside Charles and proceeds to slide another portion onto his plate.

Raven and Erik are pleased; he can see that on their faces out of the corner of his eye without having to read their thoughts. Maybe he's getting better, they're thinking.

<<I am not getting better at all,>> Charles thinks at them. <<You wait; you wait and see.>>

~~~~

A few weeks pass. Charles knows that they are all looking to him for direction and so far, he has given none. The boys pass the time training, and welcoming a recently re-coalesced Darwin into their midst. Moira flits between the estate and her office. Raven and Erik spend every day together, talking in corners about things no-one else is privy to. Charles sees it all, and decides.

Moira and he are talking one evening, outside in the cool sunshine. She promises not to tell anyone about their existence, her thoughts begging him to believe her. He kisses her, making her believe that he understands, that he might even return her interest, and then, carefully and gently, removes all of her memories associated with him.

He watches her car pull out of the driveway and tells himself that it is all for the best (<<but is it? an ally gone, who will believe in him now?>>).

Dinner is ready when he wheels into the kitchen. Charles seats himself in his usual place at the top of the table, and sees that the usual battle lines are drawn here the same as they are everywhere else; Erik and Raven on one side of the table, Sean, Alex and Hank on the other, with Darwin in the middle, keeping the peace.

They begin in silence, cutlery occasionally clanking against crockery, until Sean says, “Hey professor, I saw Moira leave earlier. When will she be back?”

Charles does not miss the edge of hopefulness in Sean's tone; he will not be the only who misses her.

“She won't be back, I'm afraid,” he replies. There is a shocked silence round the table, broken only by Alex asking, “why not?” Charles sets his fork down and folds his hands in his lap. He addresses Alex when he answers, but he means for them all to hear. “I'm afraid I found it necessary to erase all her memories of us, and this place. It will be safer that way.”

The silence is broken again, this time by Erik's smirk when he says, “Well well, Charles, this _is_ a surprise. I thought you wanted greater mutant-human integration, but perhaps you are finally seeing things _my_ way.”

Charles levels an icy glare at him, and, with as much quiet venom as he can muster in his voice, replies, “do not mistake my unwillingness to provoke or incite violence with an unwillingness to protect the things that are important and must be kept safe.”

He can see the flicker in Erik's eyes, betraying the swirl of his emotions that are not shown on his impassive face; Charles's anger, the anger always bubbling just underneath the surface, the anger that's been there since Cuba, is momentarily triumphant.

Charles doesn't wait for anyone else's reaction; he simply rolls backwards, turns, and wheels himself out of the kitchen.

He's going to show them; he's going to show them all.

~~~~

Three days later, Charles is wheeling himself into the kitchen to put a glass in the sink and encounters Erik and Raven sitting at the long wooden table in the middle of the room, talking (<<what about? always quiet, no-one else allowed, those two always together>>). Their conversation stops on Charles's entrance; an awkward silence follows his progress to the sink and removal of the glass from where it's been balancing on his lap to the sink top that he can't quite reach.

Raven says, with a fake, bright smile, “Charles, I was just telling Erik that things really feel different here, not like they were before.”

He regards both of them for a moment (<<no-one else allowed, those two always together>>), before telling them both, quietly and deadly, “If you don't like it, you're welcome to leave”.

The anger is pleased; it likes being let out to hurt and wound.

He's only just arrived in his study when Erik and Raven burst in behind him. Charles raises an eyebrow and dares them to speak.

“Why do you keep _doing_ that?” Raven cries, frustrated and angry.

“Doing what, precisely?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

“ _Saying_ things! Why are you so angry all the time?!”

There is a pause; “why am _I_ so angry all the time?”

He waits for his question to sink in and watches shame and guilt creep over Raven's face. He turns and wheels over to his desk, not expecting Erik to stalk across the room and plant his hands on the desk, forcing Charles to look up at him.

“We are talking about this, Charles,” Erik grinds out between gritted teeth. “You are only angry at _us_ , and I want to know why.”

Blandly, Charles replies, “really, Erik, I should've thought that was obvious. I don't tend to be particularly friendly to people who betray me.”

Erik's spine straightens so quickly Charles can almost hear the snap of it. “We betrayed you?” he asks, angry and incredulous.

Charles's mouth settles into a grim line as he gives Erik the main reasons for making that statement; “You were going to murder all of the people on those ships, without the slightest twinge of guilt. You were going to start a war for which no-one, least of all you, was prepared.” He flicks a glance at Raven. “You planned to set yourself up as a leader of mutants in place of Shaw and take away the people that I loved to begin an army.”

He notices Raven's start at his use of the past tense, but his attention is on Erik, whose hands are bunched in fists so tightly that his knuckles are turning white.

Finally, he adds, “I got shot in the spine because of _you_. And really, I was already in enough pain from Shaw's death without needing any more, thank you very much.”

Erik is shocked. “You... you felt Shaw's death?”

With some acerbity, Charles replies, “how do you think he managed to stay still long enough for you to push a coin through his skull?”

Erik blinks, and his tone turns almost beseeching as he leans his hands back on the desk. “You know why he had to die, Charles, he was a monster. He was going to start a nuclear war.”

“Which you were going to finish,” Charles fires back at him, “at the expense of hundreds of lives – _human_ lives, not worth living because they're not mutants.”

“They were attacking us, if you recall,” Erik argues. “With missiles.”

Charles raises his eyebrow again. “And that gave you the right to kill them? If we are 'the better men', Erik, as you so eloquently put it, then we prove it by not stooping to their level.”

“At the cost of our own lives? You want to die just to prove a point?”

“I almost did, trying to stop you.”

Erik flinches, but continues, “humans are not to be trusted, Charles, you _know_ that. Look at what you did to Moira.”

“Because of who she worked for, and the need for us to protect ourselves while we regroup and make plans for the future, not because she was _human_.”

“And are we making plans for the future?” Erik's lip curls as he goes on, “I haven't seen any planning being done yet.”

“I'm going to open a school.”

Erik pauses to absorb this, his eyes narrowing momentarily. “A school? What sort of school?”

“A school for young mutants, where I can teach them to control their mutations and help them understand the world we live in.”

“Control? You mean hide.”

“Hardly that. If they don't understand their mutation, they can be dangerous to themselves and those around them. The path to acceptance by humans will be easier if they see the benefits of mutation.”

“Acceptance by humans? How delightfully naïve of you, Charles.”

“It's the future.”

“It's wishful thinking. Your problem is that you trust everyone.”

“And _your_ problem,” Charles retorts, “is that you trust no-one.”

Erik's mouth closes abruptly, giving Charles the chance to add, “Besides, I don't trust everyone. I don't trust those who know about my mutation and refuse to accept it.”

Erik's head tilts slightly, as though studying Charles's words and intent. “Who are you referring to?”

“Not humans, oddly enough, but you.” He glances at Raven, then Erik.

Erik's anger is building. “ _I_ don't accept your mutation?”

“No, you don't. You told me to stay out of your head; you put Shaw's helmet on to cut me off completely; you want me, a telepath, to limit myself to being less than I am.”

“Telepaths are powerful – _you_ are powerful. You could get inside my head and make me think things that are the oppposite of my own thoughts, make me believe things that I have never believed – you could know things about me that no-one else does or should.”

“And what,” Charles wonders, “makes you think that that is something I would do?”

Erik doesn't answer him, but Raven does. “You're really powerful, Charles, you could do anything you wanted.”

“And have I?” he asks her. “In all the years that I have known you, have you ever seen me exert my telepathy in such a way?” He addresses Erik again. “Why do you insist on believing that I have no limits or moral compass? You refuse to accept that I have any kind of restraint on my ability and instead, you cut me off.”

Erik says nothing, and Charles's anger bubbles up again. “Let me show you how that feels.”

Subtly, and with ease, he places a mental block on their mutations and then suggests to both of them that they use them; Raven finds that she can't shift, and Erik can't feel metal anywhere.

It's all in their minds, of course; so is the fear, and the screaming.

The anger goads him to make it last, make them pay, they should suffer the way he has, make them see how it feels, but his conscience intervenes and he stops. The ten seconds they suffered through probably felt like a lifetime, and his conscience pricks him when he remembers that Erik has already spent a lifetime suffering, and doesn't need any more.

Raven throws up into a nearby plant pot, and Erik's face is so pale it's almost like wax.

“I am a telepath,” Charles says quietly, almost like his old self for a moment. “I can't help the way I was born, I can't help the extent of my mutation and I have no wish to. Thoughts are what I know.”

He pauses for a moment as both Erik and Raven recover, and continues, “this place will become a school where all mutations are accepted, for whatever they are, and that will begin _now_. If you can't accept me, as a mutant and a telepath, then there will be no place for you here.”

Charles doesn't realise until later when he replays the conversation in his head that he sounds like a prim schoolmistress when he adds, “things are going to change in this place, whether you like it or not.”

~~~~

Charles announces at breakfast the next day that he wants to hold a meeting in the drawing room. It's big enough to hold all of them and has enough corners for those who want to hide in them to do so. His plan for a school is met with enthusiasm from Hank, Alex, Darwin and Sean, who instantly begin to plan what to do with the various rooms in the house; Charles dismisses them with the instruction to bring their ideas to him, once they are more definite, and they leave babbling happily about classrooms and arguing over who's going to teach sports. Erik glowers at no-one in particular and follows them out.

Only Raven is left, and she is furious.

“I'm mad at you for that asshole stunt you pulled yesterday,” she says without preamble.

“I was merely showing you how it feels when you tell me to stay out of your head,” Charles replies.

“And what about my privacy?” she demands.

“You have it. I wasn't suggesting that I go fishing in your head for what happened to the bottle of bourbon that disappeared from under Mother's nose.”

“You're so self-righteous. Talking about "acceptance" when you've never accepted _me_.”

“Haven't I?”

“No! You were the one who told me I had to hide! I was never allowed outside looking like myself because you wouldn't let me!”

“I told you why, Raven.”

She splutters angrily, “no you didn't! It was always 'oh Raven put on your human face before we're in public please' because you didn't want anyone to see me when I was blue!”

Charles considers her for a moment. “Let me show you, please, and then you might understand.”

Raven nods stiffly in acquiescence, squaring her shoulders and bracing herself. Charles wonders idly what ideas she obviously has about a telepath showing her anything, but eases himself into her mind and says <<I'm here.>>

Her mind is full of swirls – anger, confusion, fear of the unknown – and, gently, he begins.

<<I am a telepath. I see and hear and touch the thoughts of everyone around me.>>

<<People don't always say what they think. Sometimes the two are opposite. All sorts of thoughts hide under the surface of people – not just humans, but mutants too.>>

He gives her a glimpse of all the thoughts running along just the surface of all the minds of the current occupants of the house, and it bothers her – that he can hear that all the time, how does he not go mad, please turn it off, it's too much.

<<I can control it; I can shield myself against the tide.>>

A touch of reassurance, and he continues.

He plays his memories of her in her blue form, letting all his thoughts layer over the memories – <<beautiful, so beautiful, blue is lovely, wish I could see her like that all the time.>>

He adds his memories of the thoughts of the few people who ever saw Raven in her true form – <<ugly, what is that, why does she look like that, fear, disgust, why can't she be like everyone else?>>

Charles pauses to let his sister wipe away a tear; perhaps this is too much for her, but she needs to understand him.

He plays her a dream that he's often had – of the two of them, walking arm in arm down a street in Oxford as they so often did; but in the dream, Raven is blue, and Charles shows her how proud he is to have a sister so lovely.

He shows her all the fear and mistrust from everyone around them in the dream, and how that translates to his own worry, and the need to protect her from harm – because so often the first reaction of other people to something they don't understand is to lash out.

<<You are my sister, and I love you; you are a mutant, beautiful and blue, and I am proud of you; but I am afraid for you, Raven, because other people do not understand the beauty I can see.>>

<<What I did, I did because I wanted to keep you safe.>>

He eases out of her mind, and she hiccups, tears streaming down her face. Raven says nothing, but turns on her heel and rushes out of the room. Charles sighs, and slowly wheels himself out of the drawing room, towards the study.

Erik catches him on the threshold, angry (<<everyone is angry all the time, maybe I'm projecting it, didn't think I was, thought the anger was all mine>>). “Your sister ran past me crying. She stayed to speak to you, and now she is upset. What did you tell her?” he demands.

Charles turns in the doorway with his hand on the door. “I told her the truth,” he says, letting sadness lace through his tone, and closing the door on Erik before he can say anything more.

~~~~

Raven and Erik both accept his terms, in ways that he did not expect but is characteristic of both of them. Charles is sitting at the fire in the drawing room one evening, thoroughly absorbed in a journal article that he thinks contains the most appalling experimental theory about genetic reproduction. He is so absorbed, in fact, that he almost doesn't notice the moment when Raven's mind reaches out to his.

<<Charles?>>

<<Hmmm?>>

<<Charles.>>

He starts, realising that Raven is speaking to him, and looks round at her; she is curled up on the couch in the middle of the room, resting the weight of her head on one hand and looking at him.

<<Hello, Raven.>>

Charles is almost giddy, and lets his thoughts shape themselves into a smile in her mental direction.

<<I wasn't... I don't know how this works.>>

<<This is fine. Thank you.>>

She smiles, and looks away. It is enough, and Charles has to work hard to contain his grin and return to the rather dry article he's reading.

Erik, true to form, lets Charles into his mind without any announcement or fuss. He simply stops speaking aloud in the middle of a discussion about the location of the classrooms and _thinks_ what he wanted to say instead.

<<Things have changed already,>> Charles muses later, <<and we haven't even opened the school.>>

~~~~

Charles has always known himself. He knows what he is in general terms; son, brother, stepson, academic, mutant, telepath. He knows what he is in specific terms; bullied, wounded, afraid, confident, lover, protector. He knows that the outside world pretends to understand him, but doesn't know him at all. He presents part of himself to others, and keeps the rest hidden – partly out of the need to protect himself, partly because others will not understand him.

His greatest fear is that when he finally meets someone who could stand on an equal footing with him – and this has always applied to humans as much as it has mutants, and to men as much as to women; Charles does not discriminate – they will discover things in his depths that they cannot accept, and he will be left alone.

He knows and understands loneliness; he has had the chance to study it at length and up close; he would not wish it on anyone, least of all himself. The spectre of loneliness hovers over him now, jostling for room with anger and sadness.

He did not expect his worst fears to become his closest friends.

~~~~

Charles isn't quite sure how Hank managed to oversee the renovations of the mansion, read up on all the medical textbooks he could get his hands on to make sure Charles received the best possible care, design a new (and bigger) jet _and_ complete a new Cerebro, but he did. Hank hadn't let him near the bowels of the mansion where Cerebro was housed, and had asked Charles not to read the thoughts he had about it before it was finished. When Charles asked why, Hank simply said that he wanted it to be a surprise; Cerebro was to be a present to him. Charles was unbelievably touched and agreed to Hank's wishes.

On the day Hank announces that it's ready, Charles wheels himself into the elevator and travels down to the lower levels of the mansion. His excitement mounts as he rolls through the sleek corridors towards the door that has been locked for some time; to his surprise, Hank is accompanied by Erik when he reaches him. Hank taps in the keycode to the door, gesturing with his head in Erik's direction and saying, “Erik is here in case anything goes wrong, I hope you don't mind.” Charles has the utmost faith in Hank's abilities, but recognises that safety is also important, so he murmurs “no, of course not” as the metal door slides open.

Charles wheels himself forward through the door, and the breath leaves his body. Cerebro is _magnificent_ ; a huge empty metal sphere, with a console in the centre of it, a walkway leading up to it – Charles can see at a glance that it's wide enough for a wheelchair _and_ a person to walk comfortably alongside it. It shines in the gleam of the lights attached to the walkway, pointed outwards and illuminating Hank's handiwork; Charles is so caught up in admiring it that he only half listens to Hank's tour of the console panel and instructions on its use.

Erik clears his throat discreetly and Charles's gaze snaps to him; Erik is trying not to laugh at him, schooling his features into passivity. Hank is blessedly oblivious to his inattention, but Charles can't help the little curl of joy in his chest that Erik has noticed something about him that no-one else has.

Hank frowns and growls, dropping to the floor and sliding under the panel to fiddle with something. Charles surreptitiously studies Erik, his casual stance beside Charles's wheelchair, the muscles in his arms emphasised by the way he has folded his arms across his chest - an unusually relaxed pose for him – his face turned upwards as he gazes at Cerebro (<<the column of Erik's neck is extended, taut; he wants to run his tongue over the tendons and veins and find the spot that makes him gasp>>).

“What's it like?” Charles asks, quietly, only for Erik to hear.

“What's what like?”

“The metal.”

Erik pauses, a frown developing between his eyebrows as he tries to think of the right words to say to explain how the metal feels. Eventually he settles on, “I could show you?” and tilts his head in invitation.

Charles lets his mind curl around Erik's, loving the feel of that bright, ordered mind and looks carefully through his thoughts for the metal sense; he experiences it as Erik does, and it's extraordinary. Mutation is such a beautiful thing, in theory and in practice, and nowhere is this more obvious than in the way that Erik can sense every scrap of metal, feel its pull and shift, know what each metal is and what he can do with it, the endless nature of possibility.

Of all the mutations that Charles has come across, including his own, Erik's is his favourite.

“It's like singing,” he says softly, awed, clumsily attempting to describe it in ways that make sense. “Like all of the words of your heart sung back to you without you knowing it.”

Erik smiles, a long, slow smile, and Charles chooses not to dip into his mind to decipher the meaning of the look in his eyes that Charles does not understand. Hank has re-emerged from underneath the console panel and is now eager for Charles to try the machine out.

“It will be different this time, professor. I worked out a method of showing what you find in Cerebro in a more visual way – it won't just be you who can see things,” Hank says, an unmistakeable note of pride in his gruff voice. It was probably an extremely difficult thing to do, and if Charles knows Hank, he took that as a challenge, not a deterrent (<<dear, genius Hank>>).

Charles looks at Erik as he puts the headset on. “Let me return the favour,” he tells him with a smile, and Erik nods; he's trying to hide his eagerness, but Charles can see it all the same.

The first rush as Cerebro opens up in his mind is like walking outside into fresh air after spending too long in a stuffy, dusty room. Charles revels in it, welcomes it, lets his mind stretch like a muscle that's been underused for too long; he flies over seas and continents and mountains and valleys and plains.

Hank's exclamation of “It's working!” makes him open his eyes – he didn't realise he'd closed them. Hank fiddles with the controls a moment, and the whole of Cerebro lights up. Erik gasps and rests a hand on Charles's shoulder. “What is that?” he asks, sounding as awed as Charles did a moment ago.

“That, Erik, is the population of the world,” Charles answers for Hank. He can feel all of them, their thoughts and wishes and dreams and fears. Humanity, in all it's glory, all three billion of them. He seeks out the mutants among them, his mind skipping all round the world in a matter of minutes, and he can't help laughing out loud for sheer joy. Hank flips a switch, and the light dims a little, changing from iridescent white to red.

For Erik's benefit, Charles says out loud, “I can feel them, all of them. All those little figures in red are mutants, Erik. Mutants. Like you and me.”

Erik's hand on his shoulder tightens, and there is emotion in his voice when he says, wonderingly, “we're not alone”.

Charles looks up at him – a little difficult to do, with the headpiece on his head – and says, “we were never alone, Erik.”

Erik smiles, and Charles covers the hand on his shoulder with his own.

It feels like the start of something, and Charles's heart soars.

~~~~

The school opens after the Easter holidays, just as spring spreads its wispy fingers around the Westchester estate. Charles decides to be the one to go recruiting the mutant children that he finds through Cerebro, as he figures that people are more likely to be sympathetic to someone in a wheelchair – he might not have accepted his disability, but he will use it for his own ends.

He adopts his most encouraging and professorial expression on a regular basis, accompanied by his widest smile – Raven calls it his “twinkly face” - and babbles in a thoroughly disarming fashion about the merits of his school for the gifted. Erik goes with him on these trips to add an air of respectability, and partly, though Charles never tells him this, in case anything should go wrong. He is more than capable of defending himself, but he trusts Erik with his life, and is glad of the company too. It's not at all like, but exactly like, their previous recruiting trip; they are the same, but they have changed, and sometimes Charles feels the oppression of the differences between then and now threatening to claw its way up his throat.

When the school is finally up and running with ten students and counting, including Alex's long-lost brother, Scott (the memory of their reunion causes Charles to wipe away tears every time he thinks about it), Charles is justifiably proud of what they have achieved in such a short space of time. Darwin proves to have an aptitude for and interest in teaching history; Hank teaches maths and general science; Alex teaches sports and does some training of the student's mutant abilities; Sean, by dint of being an excellent cook and already doing the job anyway, is in charge of the day-to-day running of the house, and also a referee during games; Erik had offered to teach literature, German and French the day after Charles had announced the plan and does it with some aplomb; and Charles teaches genetics, at least as far as it pertains to the students and their mutations, along with some philosophy and politics and training of the student's abilities, as well as being a headmaster and friend.

Raven doesn't know where she fits in and Charles reassures her that she will find a place. He hasn't missed that when the children need a friend, or are worried about something, or just want to talk, they go to Raven as much as they do to him.

Charles goes to bed at night exhausted and pleased, and ignores the worry at the back of his mind that reminds him that all of this could be taken away very easily.

~~~~

Alex and Darwin are not unused to being mentally asked to join Charles in his study. They are, however, surprised to find each other already there.

Charles decides to get to the point, rather than beat around the bush, so to speak.

“Am I right in thinking that you have developed strong feelings for each other?”

Their emotions spike, shock and fear spreading in equal measure. Alex moves as if to start forward, anger in his eyes, and Charles puts up a hand. “You will find no censure here, Alex. I'm simply asking if it's true that you do, in fact, love each other.”

He had not tried to pry into the meaning of the lightness of Alex's shoulders after Darwin returned, or the glances between them, the unspoken communication they developed with ease. However, it had been _very_ disconcerting to be woken up at 3am a few nights ago by a strong wave of arousal and lust, not least because he didn't know where it was coming from. After that, Charles recognised their relationship in the little things that they did every day.

Alex and Darwin look at each other, and then at him. Darwin speaks for both of them - “Yeah, Prof, it's true.” Charles smiles, and folds his hands in his lap. “I'm very pleased for you both. You're well suited to each other.”

They exchange grins, and Alex brushes a hand over Darwin's arm. “We're not-- we know it's illegal, Prof, and I don't want to go back to jail again,” he says, worry evident on his face. Charles is quick to ease his mind on that score; “I don't think anyone here will report you to the authorities, Alex. And besides, isn't that what we're trying to teach the children – acceptance? You two will simply be another example of what they can, and should, accept.”

Alex nods and bites his lip; Darwin places a reassuring hand on his back. “We've tried to hide it, Prof, but if we don't need to...” Alex trails off, unsure of how to ask for what he wants. Charles knows, and answers for him. “You have no need to hide, not here. If you wish the others to know about your relationship, tell them – if you do not, say nothing. I will not tell them. The choice is up to you.”

They thank him and leave the study, hands brushing against each other. Later, they sit beside each other at dinner, and Alex curls one long arm around Darwin's back, and Charles watches proudly as the others offer congratulations and teasing in equal measure.

He catches Erik's eye, and wishes for things he cannot have.

~~~~

“What do you dream about, Professor?”

“Running,” Charles answers, wistfully, unintentionally honest; the question from little Jean, who's been describing a dream she had to the others at breakfast, interrupts his reverie on the way the sunshine through the kitchen window highlights the hollows of Erik's throat.

There is an awkward silence from the older ones that makes Charles realise what he's said; guilt shadows Erik's face, and he could kick himself for blurting out the first thing that came into his head.

Everyone begins talking at once about different things, even the little ones who don't understand what's going on and just want to take the sad look off the Professor’s face, and breakfast ends much more quickly then usual. Charles retreats to the study, from where he is peremptorily summoned, via his thoughts, by Erik.

When Charles wheels into the gym, he is surprised to find Alex and Darwin there. They offer him a smile, and then look expectantly at Erik.

Erik waves Charles towards a weight set in the middle of the room, and clears his throat. “I spoke to Hank, and he suggested that some form of PT might be good for you. Especially,” he adds quietly, “if you miss being able to go out running.” His eyes slip subtly downwards over Charles's legs – so subtly, that if Charles hadn't already been looking at him, he would've missed it.

Charles shakes his head. “It's alright, Erik, I didn't mean to say that earlier.” He shrugs. “I know I can't go running any more. It's _alright_.”

Erik also shakes his head. “It'll be better in the long run if you build up your muscle strength. Alex and Darwin have offered to do the exercises with you so that you can gauge what you need to work on.”

Charles wonders if Erik is glad the others are here; he and Erik have not spent much time alone in each other's company, and perhaps it's too much for Erik to countenance, this potentially extended period of time that they will be spending with each other.

He acquiesces, however, and begins Erik's PT schedule that, at the beginning, is nothing short of punishing. But he gets used to it, and finds himself looking forward to it. Erik has even devised exercises for his legs, massaging and manoeuvring them gently but firmly, and soon Charles notices the difference. He was never on the chubby side – the running kept him lean – but months of inactivity after Cuba have made him soft. He doesn't spend a lot of time naked these days, but he can now trace all of the individual muscles in his stomach; his arms are strong, and he can transfer himself out his chair much more easily; even his legs, the ones that don't move, the ones he can't feel, are covered in defined muscle.

And if Charles thrills inwardly every time Erik touches him, and watches the way beads of sweat slip down the back of his neck – well, that's his secret to keep.

~~~~

Sometimes Charles wishes he was more like Sean. Sean is never anything but cheerful, even first thing in the morning when he's still half asleep and attempting to make pancakes for twenty three people. The children adore him, and the older ones treat him like a brother; despite his laid back attitude to absolutely everything, he does his job well, and Charles is grateful for it.

Once, not long after Cuba, Sean asked him if Erik had been in the camps, “the ones for the Jews”. Erik had never given Charles permission to tell anyone about his past, and Charles had never brought the subject up. He doesn't wear anything short-sleeved very often, so his tattoo is usually hidden. Charles wonders how Sean knew to ask such a specific question, and says so.

“Just.. his sleeve caught on the door handle yesterday and he has a number tattooed on his arm. I saw pictures of people coming out of the camps in Poland with numbers on their arms. Thought maybe that's what happened to him. I mean, Shaw was a Nazi, wasn't he?” is Sean's astonishing answer. Charles can only nod, and answer Sean's original question in the affirmative.

Sean muses for a moment, and Charles quails at the thought of what he's going to say _now_. Finally, Sean says, “they all looked hungry. In the photos, I mean. Maybe that's why Erik is so thin.” Charles says nothing, and Sean leaves, and he is none the wiser about the conversation he has just had.

Charles doesn't forget the conversation, but he puts to the back of his memory when other pressing matters require his attention, and it isn't until some time later that he remembers anything about it.

Sean proved - after Cuba - to be an excellent cook, and was automatically put on meal duty for everyone. He accepted the post without complaint and could often be heard crooning in the kitchen as he worked.

One afternoon, Charles arrives in the kitchen to find silence has descended over its occupants. Everyone seems to be looking at Erik, who is fiddling with his knife and not looking anywhere except down at his plate. “What's wrong?” Charles demands; he has a headache from wrestling all morning with the paperwork required to register the school with the New York school board, and has no time for any arguments.

Hanks volunteers to speak. “Sean seems to be making something for lunch that. Well. It's a dish native to Poland.”

“That was thoughtful of him,” Charles says, not seeing the problem.

No-one else volunteers any more information, and Charles arranges himself at his usual place at the table. Sean appears from the entrance of the kitchen proper and produces a server with a flourish, setting it on the table and disappearing back into the kitchen before reappearing bearing a large dish. Oblivious to the silence, Sean serves a portion onto everyone's plate and sits down, declaring, “tuck in!” and proceeding to do just that himself.

Everyone else begins to eat. Charles shakes out a napkin and places it over his lap, watching from the corner as his eye as Erik slowly picks up his knife and fork, cuts a piece and takes a mouthful of what appears to be some form of pancake made from potato. He chews it thoughtfully, and as he does so, it occurs to Charles that Erik's portion is bigger than everyone else's. In fact, the more he thinks about it, Erik is always given more than everyone else at every meal. There's always some left over too, just for Erik – but never anyone else.

Charles looks at Sean, eating away, and thinks about the kindness that people show to each other, unnoticed and for which they are never thanked. He wonders if Erik has ever noticed that Sean does this for him, every single day, and if he knows why.

The collective, and audible, sigh of relief that follows Erik's pronouncement of the meal as “very good” is more amusing to Charles than it should be; he does not, however, miss that Erik is more subdued than usual, and tentatively reaches his thoughts out to him.

<<Are you alright?>>

<<I think so, yes.>>

Charles doesn't press matters but, unbidden, Erik offers him a memory, of helping his mother making this dish – it's called Ratzelech, Charles learns - and how eating it now has reminded him of her so forcefully that tears are threatening to fall from his eyes, and how he misses her so much it aches.

<<Oh, Erik, I'm sorry.>> Charles doesn't really miss his mother, and she never loved him enough for Charles to be sad at her passing, so his attempts at sympathy always seem – to him, at least – rather inadequate.

Erik mentally pats him on the hand and continues eating.

Charles makes a point of thanking Sean personally for what he did for Erik; Sean shrugs, and says that he's welcome, and sings while he washes the dishes.

~~~~

Charles watches his sister fall in love.

Irene Adler did not come to the school to be taught, but to find refuge; her precognitive abilities resulted in her being imprisoned, essentially, in a mental institution. A kindly orderly facilitated her escape, and she found her way to Westchester. Charles didn't ask whether she came because she saw it by means of her gift, or had heard of it through other channels, but welcomed her warmly and offered to give her a tour of the place, mindful of the fact that although she might be blind, this has probably rendered her other senses more acute than most people's.

The children warm to her instantly; though she is often quiet, she has an excellent sense of humour, and the little ones seem to instinctively know to describe things to her, or explain where things are.

Charles sees Raven withdraw into herself, and it pains him that she thinks she is not worthy of Irene's attention. Irene cannot _see_ her, and Charles wonders if perhaps that has something to do with it; Raven is used to being judged on her appearance, but not for herself.

He finds her curled up on a deck chair outside one afternoon, miserable and puffy-eyed. Without saying anything at all, he puts his arms around her and rocks her, the way he used to when they were children and she had had a nightmare.

He doesn't mention that he feels like crying himself, for his own unrequited love.

~~~~

Erik plants roses under the windows of Charles's study. Charles tries to pretend that he has not spent all morning watching him do it, but of course he has. The work causes sweat to trickle over Erik's forehead, and his polo shirt to stick to his chest in several enticing places that Charles would like to investigate further; the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunch and relax as he works, neatly and without fuss as is his way. The sunshine brings out ginger tints in his hair.

Charles looks at him and thinks that even if Erik loved him back just a little, it would be enough-- it would be the world.

Because who else _but_ Erik could be his equal? Who else could possibly love a cripple like him?

Besides that, Erik has changed him in some very fundamental ways. Before, Charles merely disliked violence, and in theory was against the use of it as a means to achieve political ends. Erik's abrupt entrance into his life, and the memories gleaned from his mind in one short, intense moment, has crystallised Charles's views on many things, chiefly that of pacifism as the way to achieve anything, and to make him completely abhor violence.

Charles thinks back to that naïve academic he used to be, not bothered by things like integration between humans and mutants; not worried in the least about mass suffering caused by violence stemming from hatred and fear; never thinking about the future on a grand scale, only a small one.

Knowing Erik has changed him for the better; he knows what it is to love, and to love completely and selflessly, without expecting anything in return. He sees everything differently now; loving Erik makes him love all of mutant-kind, with a fierceness he did not have before, because Erik is a mutant; the sun shines brighter and warmer when it shines on Erik; a game of chess is a delight, because he plays it with Erik. He has not always done the right thing; his anger at Erik was partly motivated out of love and jealousy, but whatever Erik has done did not make him deserve that anger.

The roses are planted, and Erik is wiping the sweat from his brow with a hand covered in soil, his face streaked with it.

Charles longs to be the one to wipe it all away, and afterwards press a kiss to every corner of that dear face.

~~~~

Charles is a light sleeper at the best of times; there are always too many active minds for him to ever achieve a truly deep sleep. However, a wave of psychic distress is akin to something very heavy being dropped on his head, and he wakes instantly, blinking rapidly, flailing and disorientated. A few seconds later, there is a tap at his bedroom door, and he groans in what he hopes will be understood by the person on the other side – Hank, he realises – as an invitation to come in.

He has a headache already; the distress is still washing over him. Hank opens the door as quietly as he can and pads into the room. Charles flicks the bedside light on and attempts to sit up.

“What is it, Hank? What's wrong?” he asks as Hank reaches the side of the bed Charles is currently occupying. “Sorry for waking you, Professor, it's Irene. She seems to have dreamed something, or perhaps seen something of the future, and she's very distressed. Raven asked me to come and get you right away.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Charles replies. He glances at his chair, gauging his ability to get into it without making a fool of himself in front of Hank; Hank notices and says, “I think it might be quicker if I took you, Professor.” Charles doesn't know what he means, but gets the idea when Hank leans down and scoops him out of bed, lifting him as though he weighed nothing and carrying him as easily as if he was one of the children.

Charles hides his conflicting emotions and tucks his elbows in when Hank reaches the doorway. In the light of the hallway, once his eyes have adjusted, Charles realises that he's never seen Hank without at least one layer of clothes on; now, he is shirtless and very _blue_. His fur is soft, and Charles tells him so. Hank chuckles, a low sound in his chest that rumbles through Charles.

“I can see,” Charles continues, “why the children think of you as an overgrown stuffed animal.”

“I like the children,” Hank says, and oh, how that statement encompasses a whole world about Hank. Charles knows that Hank doesn't just like the children, he _adores_ them; his enjoyment of teaching them is matched only by his enjoyment of his first love – at one point, Charles had rather hoped it might be Raven, but Hank's first love is knowledge. The pleasure he derives from teaching the children, shaping their young minds, is of the purest and most altruistic kind. Hank has found the place where he belongs.

<<Dear, genius Hank,>> Charles thinks, not for the first time.

They reach Irene and Raven's room (and he tries not to think about how it's _their_ room – Raven is his sister, after all, and there are some things a brother doesn't need to know), and Hank hoists Charles up in one arm as gently as he can and opens the door with his free hand. Irene is curled up under the covers in the middle of the bed, shaking and crying; Raven is sitting beside her, looking on edge and terrified. She looks less terrified when she catches sight of Charles, who Hank sets on the edge of the bed.

“What happened, love?” Charles asks Raven softly, running a soothing hand over Irene's back. Raven shakes her head and replies, “I don't know. I was asleep and she.. she started crying. I couldn't get her to tell me what was wrong.” A tear slips down her face, and Charles sends her a little pulse of calm and affection. She smiles gratefully.

He turns his attention to Irene, mentally reaching out to her and projecting as much calm to her as he can. Eventually, she stops crying and shaking, but she's still distressed.

<<Irene? What did you see?>>

She shows him, and Charles's blood runs cold; it's only fragments, but it's enough. He sees soldiers, armed, breaking into the mansion; he sees blood, he can feel pain, he can hear screaming.

<<My mutation isn't a gift, professor, it's a curse,>> Irene tells him, her mental voice shaky. <<I can't control the things that I see, and even if I don't like the events of the future or don't want them to happen, they will anyway.>>  


<<It's alright, Irene. Thank you for showing me.>>

She's still distressed, and Charles eases further into her mind to find out why. She isn't worried for herself, doesn't see herself as anything but her mutation (really, he ought to get her to talk to Erik more, they would get on famously); she is worried because of Raven – <<love, darling, life>> \- and the children – <<so little, must protect them, don't deserve hatred>> \- and, to his surprise, himself – <<respect, admiration, family?>>

Charles reassures her as best he can, promising that he will do his utmost to make sure no harm comes to any of them, and breaks his connection to Irene, directing Raven to look after her. He turns back to Hank to ask him to return him to his room and discovers, to his surprise, Erik is standing beside Hank, carrying Jean, her face hidden in his shoulder.

Most distractingly, Erik is shirtless.

Charles raises an eyebrow questioningly, just as Jean turns her head round enough to see Charles. Her face is streaked with tears and-- of course, he's not the only telepath here. “Jean felt Irene's distress,” Erik explains, “and was quite upset about it.” “I see. Are you alright now, Jean?” Charles asks, trying not to stare at the curve of Erik's shoulder and the long lines of his torso. The little girl shakes her head.

<<Can you bring her over to me, Erik, please?>>

Erik nods slightly in answer to Charles's mental request, padding over to the bed and setting Jean down beside Charles. He reaches an arm around the little girl and lets her lean into his side.

“Jean, you know what Irene's mutation is, don't you?”

She nods her head, using the back of her hand to wipe at her eyes.

"Sometimes she sees things that upset her, because she can't control what she sees. We know what the future will bring, and we can prepare for it, so there's no need to worry about it _now_. Alright?”

Jean nods again, and Charles hugs her properly. So little, and already so powerful, so grown up.

“Jean?” asks a tremulous voice behind them, and both of them turn to see Irene sitting up with her hand outstretched, Raven's arm curled protectively around her waist. Jean crawls across the bed to her, and then there is a lot of hugging and snuffling and murmuring between all three girls.

Eventually, Irene croaks out, “I don't know if I can sleep tonight, Professor, could you help?” Before Charles can answer her and explain that, with a pounding headache, he probably won't do her much good by way of putting her to sleep, Hank interrupts with, “I can help. I think I should bring you down to the hospital bay overnight, to keep an eye on you. If Charles agrees, that is.”

Charles does, readily, and Raven helps Irene off the bed, her arm still wrapped around her. Hank suggests that Jean could possibly benefit from an aspirin, and she goes with him too, one small hand held in his big paw.

This means that in a very short space of time, only Erik and Charles are left in the room. Erik is eyeing Charles with a rather speculative gleam in his eyes that is making Charles uncomfortable.

“What?” Charles asks, a little rudely.

“Aren't you cold?” Erik wonders, folding his arms across his chest (<<muscles, muscles, yummy>>). Charles looks down to see why Erik is asking and realises that he too is shirtless. Apparently no-one in the mansion wears a shirt to bed.

“No, I'm fine. I don't suppose you could get my chair for me? I'd like to go back to bed.”

Erik's eyes narrow momentarily, and then he says the most astonishing thing. “I'll take you.”

Charles is prepared to splutter indignantly about his pride, and how he put up with Hank carrying him earlier only because the situation was urgent, and how he wasn't a child, and really, suggesting that he needed carried anywhere when he had a perfectly serviceable wheelchair was ridiculous; then it occurs to him that being carried anywhere by Erik – specifically, back to his bedroom, where there was a bed – has featured in a number of his fantasies about the man, and he wouldn't mind at least part of those fantasies becoming reality.

“Fine,” he says, as grumpily as he could manage, but not feeling it. His nerves are alight with anticipation; he feels as though he could combust at any moment, and Erik hasn't even moved anywhere near him yet.

The first press of Erik's skin against his causes him to gasp quietly; Erik is _warm_ , his skin surprisingly soft, and it feels even better than Charles could possibly have imagined. His chest is broad and muscular; his arms are strong and gentle, one tucked under his knees, the other curled around his back. Erik is in no rush to go anywhere, it seems; he takes care not to jostle Charles too much as they navigate the doorway and emerge into the hallway. The mansion is quiet now; the children are all asleep. The only sound is the soft pad of Erik's feet on the carpet, and their combined breathing. They travel down the long corridor of the second floor without speaking. There isn't any need.

Charles can't help himself, and gives in to the urge to rest his head on Erik's shoulder, feeling as though he could cry and laugh all at once. Erik's breath catches in his throat, but neither of them mention it. With his face tucked under Erik's chin, and the motion of being carried proving to be more soothing than he thought, Charles feels his headache vanish. By the time they reach his bedroom he's almost asleep.

Erik sets Charles down in the bed, positions his legs, pulls the covers up round him and tucks him in, before switching the light out. In the darkness, Charles murmurs, “how did you know to do that? With my legs?”

Erik's voice holds a smile as he answers, “I used to help the nurses, when you were in the hospital.”

Perhaps those gentle hands he remembers were not a stranger's after all, but Erik's. The thought lulls him into sleep, where he dreams of a cool hand brushing the hair off his face, and a kiss pressed to his cheek.

~~~~

Charles didn't call Erik “my friend” for a long time after Cuba. At first, it was because he didn't spend a lot of time with Erik; then it was because Charles was angry; then it was because Charles knew how much he was in love with Erik, and calling him “friend” seemed rather inadequate, and it was all so very awkward anyway.

Charles accidentally finds himself alone with Erik in the drawing room one evening, and to hide his awkwardness, he merely nods at the table with the chess board on it and asks, “Would you care for a game?” Erik's surprise at the request shows on his face, but sits down anyway and arranges the pieces in their proper places. Charles pours them each a glass of scotch, and the game begins.

For a long time, there is only the crackle of the fire and the clack of the pieces on the board to break the silence in the room. Then Erik, who has been playing as boldly as usual, does something risky, meaning Charles can capture his last rook with ease, leaving his queen hopelessly vulnerable, and he chuckles, “oh my friend, you shouldn't have done that.”

“Am I?”

Erik's question interrupts the celebratory mouthful of scotch Charles had been about to imbibe, and he pauses.

“Am I... your friend?”

Ah. Charles sputters out “yes, yes, of course” while looking at anything but Erik. Erik says nothing more but studies the chess board, and when Charles risks a glance at him, he realises that Erik's eyes are bright with unshed tears.

Erik has not only noticed the lack of that word among Charles's vocabulary, but _missed_ it too, and Charles's heart twists at the thought that he has been unintentionally causing Erik pain.

At breakfast the next morning, when Charles is seated at the top of the table, Hank on his left, Erik on his right, as usual, and everyone else is piling onto whatever empty seat they can find, he looks around him – Jean is sitting on Raven's lap, playing with her hair and chirping happily about something; Scott is arm wrestling Piotr to the chagrin of Alex, making Darwin laugh; there are adults overhead and children underfoot, bickering and teasing in the air, the smell of breakfast cooking, and sunshine filtering in through the window.

Charles catches Erik's eye and says, “good morning, my friend.”

Erik's smile is as bright as the sun.

~~~~

Summer is a godsend for the school; warm weather means classes outdoors, and a good deal of sports. Hank has worked on an air conditioning system that cools the house down considerably, for which Charles is grateful; he likes the sun, but he burns very easily, and he doesn't relish the prospect of sitting in his chair for an extended period of time while in pain.

He wheels himself through the cool corridors of the mansion, still smiling at the memory of Erik Lehnsherr, Nazi hunter, rubbing sunscreen on twelve year old Warren, who insisted on going outside without a t-shirt on and whining incessantly when he got sunburnt as a result. Charles noticed that not one drop of sunscreen was dropped on Warren's wings.

The door to his study is already ajar; once inside, he finds Erik at the open window, watching the volleyball game out on the lawn. Charles rolls over beside him and says, with a smile in his voice, “I love that sound.” Laughter, the sound Charles loves, floats in through the window; everyone except Hank is involved in the game in some way, and the enjoyment of all is palpable.

Erik seems subdued, and Charles says nothing more, content to sit beside him and watch the game.

“I didn't think this was possible,” Erik says quietly. “I never thought there would be an.. 'after'.”

Charles knows what he means; Erik did not expect to survive his final encounter with Shaw, and that saddens him. He wishes he could show Erik how much he is loved, how he is _needed_ , and how Charles had always hoped for an 'after', but he says nothing.

“Charles...” Erik's voice softens, and Charles looks up at him. Even at a cursory survey of Erik's surface thoughts, Charles can feel that they are all moving towards a point, something causing Erik to feel that he is, metaphorically speaking, about to jump off a cliff.

“Yes, my friend?”

The very air in the room seems to still; the noise outside seems far away. There is only the light in Erik's eyes, and the beat of his own heart, and the blood roaring in his ears. It occurs to Charles in a dim corner of his mind that they are leaning towards each other in a rather intimate fashion.

Hank barrels into the study, making them jump apart and causing Erik's cheeks to flame. Charles briefly considers cursing his young friend for ruining what seemed like a very promising conversation, but gives Hank his fullest attention instead and tries not to watch Erik disappear out of the study.

~~~~

As a telepath, Charles is very difficult to surprise, but that is not to say that it doesn't happen. After Irene's revelation about an attack on the mansion, Charles made plans. He realised that keeping something safe could easily become _hiding_ , and he was against that now on principle. They needed to gather information about any possible government interest in the activities at the mansion, and their mutations were useful tools to use in achieving that goal. Raven impersonated various low level officials to gather any information she could; Sean flirted with an oblivious Moira and fell hopelessly in love with her, lending a melancholy edge to his happy-go-lucky nature; Hank reached out to former CIA colleagues; Erik used his well-honed skills of interrogation to terrorise anyone who might have links to the government.

When Charles questions some of his methods, Erik simply shrugs and calls him too much of an idealist to last long in the real world. Charles's response surprises even him; “then teach me to be a realist, my friend,” he says earnestly and sincerely, reaching out a tentative olive branch.

Perhaps he _is_ too much of an idealist, basing everything he does and thinks on an optimistic view of the world. Erik's cynicism can temper that idealism; Charles is convinced that there is middle ground to be found between them.

He doesn't realise that Erik has already found it until the evening that the mansion comes under attack.

Charles did not expect the soldiers to be wearing helmets much like Shaw's to block him out, or their weapons to be ceramic, or their clothes to be completely devoid of metal. He does not expect them to be so prepared. He does not expect to be dragged out of his chair in the study from where he was lost in an exhausted doze; he does not expect to be bound and gagged and helpless, able only to watch telepathically as the soldiers make their way through the mansion.

He does not expect little Ororo to summon a wind strong enough to blow five soldiers across a room towards a window, allowing Callie to call on the ivy growing up the mansion walls to burst through the window and bind the soldiers long enough for Jean to telekinetically remove their helmets and weapons, making them hover in the air for Scott to destroy with a flick of the button on his visor.

He does not expect Piotr and Darwin to team up as a shield around him, deflecting bullets and knives with ease; he does not expect Remy to incapacitate the soldiers with his deadly aim, flinging objects at them with ease and making enough of a nuisance of himself to distract the soldiers – so that Hank, hanging upside down on the ceiling, can literally drop in on them; he does not expect the way that Sean and Alex team up to be a rather destructive force of nature.

He does not expect them all to be so ready to defend themselves; he especially does not expect Erik to fashion shackles out of anything metal that he can find (mainly the cutlery in the kitchen, Charles later realises to his dismay), bind the soldiers hand and foot, knock them unconscious, float them down the driveway, over the gate, and arrange them neatly on the ground.

He's _supposed_ to be a rather powerful telepath; he's supposed to be prepared for anything.

When the last soldier is gone, and the destruction of the mansion repaired and tidied (mutants with the ability to manipulate metal, glass and wood are invaluable now), it is almost dawn, and Charles is exhausted. They all gather in the drawing room, where Charles is looking for some answers.

He addresses all of them when he says, “I'm not angry, but I would like to know how all of you were so prepared, given that we had no definite information on when this attack would occur.”

Scott is neither the oldest nor the tallest of the children, but he is their natural spokesperson. Standing beside Alex and still holding Jean's hand, he clears his throat and begins, “Mr Lehnsherr said-” Jean pokes him in the side and he stops; over the top of his visor, Charles can see his forehead wrinkling in a frown.

“Professor, when you told us what Miss Irene saw, we were real worried. Cuz we didn't want anyone to hurt us, or hurt you, and we didn't want to be in no lab like Warren was. And we wanted to help you, because you protect us all the time, but I-- _we_ didn't want to hurt anyone, even if they were soldiers with guns. And we told Mr Lehnsherr we were worried, and he said you had a friend, a close friend, but you took some of her memories away, to keep everyone safe. He said you said--” Scott stops and takes a breath, and to his astonishment, Charles hears his own words repeated back to him.

“Mr Lehnsherr said you said, 'do not mistake my unwillingness to provoke or incite violence with an unwillingness to protect the things that are important and must be kept safe'.”

Charles is flabbergasted; his words, meant to have been a stinging rebuke, have been taken as a mantra – evidently by all the children old enough to know what they mean, judging by the way they're mouthing the words as Scott is saying them out loud.

Scott goes on, “so Mr Lehnsherr said it would be alright to learn to protect ourselves, but not to use our abilities to cause harm, and Alex said he would help, and so did Darwin, and Miss Raven showed us how to block a punch, and Hank let us hit him with a bat so we could learn how to stop someone bigger than us.”

Charles glances at the aforementioned Mr Lehnsherr, standing to one side with a sleeping Ororo in his arms; he has an unmistakeable look of pride on his face. The older ones are all looking tired, the younger ones worried that Charles will be angry with them, and Charles doesn't know how to feel. He wants to know when all of these planning sessions took place, because they were never discussed in any of Erik's classes that Charles eavesdropped on – of _course_ he eavesdrops on Erik's classes; the man is unbelievably sexy when he's in full flow. He wants to shout and rage and cry and laugh and jump and run and a hundred other impossible things.

Instead, he smiles his widest smile, the one that Raven says makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, opens his arms and says, “come here.”

The children come, and every one of them needs to be hugged and kissed; Sean almost strangles him trying to hug him from behind the back of his wheelchair; Darwin and Alex hug him one-armed; he shakes Hank's hand over the heads of the children, and kisses whatever part of Raven and Irene he can get near.

Eventually, Erik shoos them all out of the room, threatening them with no breakfast in the morning if they don't make themselves ready for bed as soon as possible. Charles is too exhausted to wheel himself anywhere and debates how uncomfortable he's going to be in the morning if he falls asleep right where he is.

He doesn't need to fall asleep where he is; Erik returns, minus Ororo, and Charles finds his wheelchair moving without having to touch it. Erik walks alongside him; to the elevator, upstairs, down the corridor, to his bedroom; Charles wishes Erik could always be beside him like this at night.

Charles doesn't protest when Erik lifts him out of his chair and sets him on the edge of the bed; he lets Erik pull off his sweater, unbutton his shirt, pull off his socks, shoes and pants until he's only in his undershirt and boxers; lets Erik roll him gently to one side to pull back the bed covers before rolling him gently under them. He lies on his side, watching Erik fold up his clothes neatly, placing them on his chair beside the bed.

“Mr Lehnsherr said, indeed,” Charles murmurs with fake indignation. A smile flickers across Erik's face as he folds up Charles's shirt. “Erik, you didn't kill the soldiers. You only knocked them out. What's changed?”

Erik, now finished, stands up, turns to face him, puts his hands in his pockets and regards Charles steadily for a full minute before he answers. In the meantime, Charles has to bat away a fantasy about Erik standing in that exact spot, except naked, and balls deep in Charles.

“I realised that going to war on humans was Shaw's way, and I don't want to be like him. I don't think all humans are the picture of virtue that you think they are, but not all of them are bad. My... my mother was human, and I loved her very much. Teaching the children to protect themselves was the right thing to do, and I won't apologise for it, but I won't do something that causes you... pain,” he finishes, clearing his throat and studying the pattern on the duvet draped over Charles.

“Oh, Erik. Thank you.”

Erik rolls his eyes, and says, “what are you thanking me for, you ridiculous man?”

“For you, of course,” Charles answers, making himself more comfortable in the bed. His answer is nonsensical and he knows it, but Erik doesn't seem to mind. Charles's eyes are drooping closed now; he feels a hand on his shoulder, and Erik's voice saying, “schlafe gut, Charles.” Sleepily, he wishes Erik could be here to say that to him every night.

When he wakes, the grey light seems to reflect how he feels. Charles is drained, not least because he is a ball of conflicting emotions that are hard to cope with at the best of times, and especially first thing in the morning. So he does something he hasn't done in a while, and takes the time to separate out each strand of emotion.

There is anger; at the government that sent the soldiers to attack the mansion – at the soldiers themselves – at Erik, for being right – at himself, for not believing Erik, and for thinking too well of others; there is worry – that it might happen again – that next time no-one will be prepared – that one of the children might be hurt, or worse; there is a large dose of love and pride in equal measure at what they could do, the way they used their mutations to protect themselves and each other, how magnificent his sister looked.

Charles is overwhelmed, and the tears begin to flow; for the children, having to grow up in a world where an attack like this is a possibility, a world where their mutations are not accepted; for the older ones, struggling to find their place in such a world.

He cries for his own failings; for his pride and arrogance; for his legs.

He cries for Erik, and the love he cannot express.

~~~~

The anniversary of Cuba seems to loom large and stay there for a week before the actual date. Quite irrationally, Charles is angry that it's only been a year, because how it could only be a year when it feels like a lifetime?

On the day itself, Charles knows from the minute he gets out of bed that socialising with anyone else is not something he wants to do, and tells Darwin so when he sticks his head round the door before breakfast. Darwin simply nods, and reappears twenty minutes later with a tray of breakfast and some journals that Hank sent for him to read.

All day, he reads and ignores the outside worlds and tries to forget the memories, while remembering them all the time. Scott brings him lunch, and Alex brings dinner, both boys pretending that the professor shutting himself in his room is a perfectly normal thing to do.

As evening falls, and the sun dips lower in the sky, there is a knock on the door, and the knocker is revealed to be Irene. She crosses the room with ease, and not for the first time, Charles marvels at how she can navigate all kinds of obstacles with hardly a moment's unease.

“I came to see if you are alright, Professor,” she says, her quiet voice washing over him.

“Yes, quite well, thank you. Today... is not a day I like to remember,” he tells her in explanation.

“Raven told me that you were very angry once. It frightened her, you know – she has known you a long time, and it frightened her.”

Irene's hand rests on the arm of his wheelchair as she continues, “you are still angry, I think. I can hear it in your voice sometimes. Anger is not something to hold onto.”

“How do you cope without your sight, Irene?”

“I never had it, so I don't know what I'm missing. I can see things in other ways. I know when Raven is smiling at me, because I can hear it, or feel it.”

“I wasn't always in a wheelchair. I wasn't always paralysed.”

With a bluntness that Erik would've been proud of, Irene told him, “but you are now, and you can't change that. If you always live in the past, you will miss the future completely.”

Her words struck a chord with him; he has such plans for everyone else's future, but not his own, too blinded by his paralysis to see anything else. He's been holding onto his anger for too long, and not accepting that some things simply cannot be fixed. Charles lets the last remnants of bitterness drift away, and for the first time in a long time, he feels whole again.

They remain in comfortable silence for a long minute before Charles asks his companion, “may I show you something?” Irene nods in agreement, and Charles looks outwards, towards the sky. The sun is setting now, the sky streaked with purple and red and orange, and Charles lets Irene see all of it.

He pretends not to notice the tears running down her face as she whispers, “thank you.”

Charles lifts her hand from the edge of his chair and kisses it. “No, Irene my dear, thank _you_.” She smiles through her tears and squeezes his hand, and Charles realises that perhaps it's time for him to start living for himself, and see what the future might bring.

“I think I'll go downstairs after all. Would you mind accompanying me?”

Irene does not mind, as it turns out, and even though Charles is set on his course of action, he is still nervous of his reception when he reaches the drawing room. He wonders what the children have been told about his absence today, but the minute he crosses the threshold and hears the intake of breath from everyone in the room, followed by an armful of Sean and his gangly limbs, he forgets all about it and concentrates more on the way that Raven's smile could light up the whole room, and the way that Erik looks considerably less morose than he did a minute ago.

<<This is what I should live for,>> he thinks. <<This is the future.>>

~~~~

Charles spent his twenty-ninth birthday in a hospital bed, wired to every possible kind of machine and breathing with the help of more. His thirtieth birthday is, therefore, already looking like an improvement, even if Raven says that it means he is now officially 'an old fart'.

He wonders how the children managed not to think about the surprise birthday party they threw him after dinner, or anyone else for that matter, but he's delighted with the surprise. The children give him presents of sweets and socks and scarves; Hank gives him a bottle of very fine scotch; Raven and Irene give him the new Christopher Isherwood novel; Alex and Darwin's present is, at first, rather mystifying.

“Leather fingerless gloves?” he asks, holding one up for closer inspection. They look rather like driving gloves with the fingertips cut off.

“They're wheelchair gloves,” Alex explains. At Charles's look of confusion, he goes on, “we noticed that you get sore hands sometimes from wheeling yourself around all the time, and Hank said you could get callouses on 'em, so we thought a good pair of gloves would make it easier for you.”

Charles is so touched he's speechless, but tries them on at the behest of everyone in the room, and when he can finally speak again, thanks everyone for their presents while attempting not to cry. Hank rounds up both the children and the presents, including the gloves, promising to put them all to bed and the presents in Charles's room, although Charles does snag the scotch before Hank can take it anywhere.

He wheels himself to the study, planning to have a good cry and drink a fair amount of the scotch, only to find Erik there already, standing at the fireplace with his hands in his pockets. Erik has been quiet all evening and didn't taken part in the present-giving, and Charles wonders what's eating at him.

Erik looks up when Charles rolls over the threshold and smiles tightly. Charles manoeuvres himself over to the table beside the fire and sets the scotch on it, offering to pour some for Erik. Erik refuses and takes to pacing up and down the study, evidently agitated.

After a minute of watching him, Charles cracks and asks, “Erik, my friend, what's bothering you?”

Erik comes to an abrupt halt and turns to face Charles again, one hand rubbing at his forehead. “I thought...,” he begins. “I thought when you started being in my head that you would look at everything, and you would know things. But you-- you didn't. You always let me know when you were in here and what you were doing. You never went very deep-- you never _saw_.” He stops, breathing a little more heavily now.

Charles refrains from pointing out that giving him access to Erik's mind did not mean he was about to go rifling through it like he'd lost his keys in there.

Erik goes on, his tone a little more desolate now, “it's your birthday and I should've... I should've given you a present, but I only want to give you one thing. I want you to _know_.” He adds, bitterly, “of course, you might not want to know.”

He crosses to where Charles is sitting and drops to his knees, pulling one of Charles's hands out of his lap and pressing it to the side of his head. “ _Look_ ,” he pleads, and Charles does, diving into Erik's mind, wanting to see what Erik has to show him.

Erik is in love with him.

His love for Charles runs deep; it's threaded through everything he does and thinks. Charles sees Erik's memories of the past few months, his hopes and wishes and dreams, every fantasy, every moment of sadness. He dives deeper and sees the guilt underneath, the way it quivers in Erik's chest every time he watches Charles do something more clumsily than he used to, remembers the easy grace with which he used to walk and angry that his own actions were responsible for taking that away. Deeper still, and Charles sees every argument, every discussion about the fundamental things that they stand for and how it has shaped and changed Erik.

And there, at the heart of everything Erik is trying to show him, overlaid with memories of himself, is a stream of <<not alone, not alone any more, always want to be here with him, love, love, _home_ >>

“Do you see?” Erik asks, his voice croaky, his eyes not meeting Charles's.

Charles shakes at Erik's hand, still covering his own, and he drops it. Carefully, Charles traces the line of Erik's brow, the curve of his nose, the flush of his cheek. He leans forward and, kissing Erik's forehead softly, answers, “yes, my love, I see.”

Erik's eye snap upwards to meet his, and Charles smiles. He is too overwhelmed by the fact that his love for Erik is returned to do much else.

“Charles...” Erik says wonderingly, amazed; Charles smiles wider and brings his other hand up to frame Erik's face. He leans towards Erik and brushes his nose over his. Erik presses forward and kisses him, a closed-mouth peck, but the effect it has on Charles is electrifying. Erik _loves_ him. Erik is _kissing_ him.

He surges forward, throws his arms around Erik's neck and pulls him closer, fusing his mouth to Erik's; their mouths open, tongues curling round each other, arms engulfing bodies, souls meeting.

It occurs to Charles some time later that kissing Erik while still sitting in his chair is not particularly comfortable, and Erik's knees are bound to be protesting. He nudges Erik in the direction of the couch in front of the fire, and transfers himself to it with ease. Erik wedges himself in beside him, and more kissing is inevitable and very, very welcome.

Charles lets his mind touch Erik's, showing him the depths of _his_ love, all of his own dreams and wishes, all of his memories, all of his hopes for the future. He lets Erik's love wash over him, ebbing and flowing but never receding, and returns the favour.

That night, once he has reluctantly extricated himself from Erik's arms to go to bed, Charles dreams of Erik's eyes, shining in the firelight, full of love for him.

~~~~

Charles is a creature of habit; he always was before he lost the use of his legs, and now his daily routine is a necessity. This means that at a particular time of the morning, he's finished washing and dressing himself for the day, ready to go downstairs for breakfast.

There is always a knock on the door round this time, with someone on the other side ready to accompany him to breakfast. Charles has never figured out how this routine started, or how the older mutants in the mansion decide between themselves whose turn it is, but it gives him a chance to spend a minute or two with one of them every morning, to have a conversation with them, either telepathically or out loud, or just to enjoy their company.

The morning after his birthday, Charles wakes with a lighter heart than he seems to have had in years, and flies through his morning routine, not really noticing what he's doing. By the time the knock on the door comes, he's in the bathroom towelling his face dry, so he doesn't even see who's in his bedroom till he flips the towel onto the edge of the sink and wheels himself forward, before coming to a surprised standstill.

This morning, apparently, it's Erik's turn.

Erik has never taken part in this little morning routine before, but that doesn't matter; he's standing in Charles's bedroom, all lean grace, a slight smile curling the edges of his mouth. Charles is incapable of doing anything except looking at him, drinking in the sight he would like to see every morning – something that seems more possible today than it ever has.

Erik steps forward and kneels down on one knee beside Charles's chair, reaching out and lifting one arm up enough to button the loose cuff at his wrist. He does the same on the other side, giving Charles the chance to brush against his thoughts and he realises that under the calm exterior, Erik is nervous. Charles shifts a little deeper to find out why. Oh, Erik thinks that things might look differently in the cold light of day, maybe Charles has changed his mind, what if--

Charles cuts off that thought by reaching out with his free hand and taking hold of the front of Erik's turtleneck, yanking him forward and kissing him soundly. He pulls back a little to see Erik's face; Erik's smile grows teeth.

Ten minutes later, they are both equally dishevelled and grinning at each other like madmen, but neither of them seem to care. Charles certainly doesn't, not when Erik's cool hands are brushing his hair back into some semblance of normality and straightening his collar. Erik cups his cheek and presses one last, short, sweet kiss to his lips; they go down to breakfast, not speaking, but content to simply _be_.

No-one else notices anything out of the ordinary when they reach the kitchen; Hank monopolises Charles's attention to discuss some improvements to Cerebro; Ororo pounces on Erik the minute she sees him, and the usual noise and bustle of breakfast is a perfect cover for the heated look that Erik is giving Charles at every opportunity.

All day, Charles feels as though he's at the edge of something, as though something under his skin is restless, trying to get out. He doesn't understand what it is until later; when Erik's mind taps against his that evening, getting his attention, his decision has been made.

<<Yes, Erik?>>

<<Chess?>>

<<No, I don't think so.>>

There is a pause, and then from Erik comes <<where are you?>>

<<In your room.>>

Five minutes later, Charles hears the click of the door opening and Erik steps in, a little out of breath, as though he has run here. He shuts the door behind him and looks at Charles, sitting in his chair on the other side of the room – beside the bed.

Erik's mind is a jumble of <<why is he here? does he want to-- I want-- is he sure that this is a good idea?>>

<<Just come here>> Charles tells him, and Erik comes, leaning down to kiss him. Charles pushes all of the thoughts he has had about being in bed with Erik into his head, giving him all of the _want_ and all of the _need_ that he's ever felt for him.

Erik breaks off kissing him, and reaches down to lift Charles's feet off the footrests on his chair. He kisses him again, sliding his arms round Charles's sides to meet round his back and lift him out of the chair. He stands upright, Charles's legs dangling downwards but his body held firmly in place by Erik's strong arms, and Charles thinks that he wouldn't mind being picked up like this at _all_ if it was Erik doing it.

They reach the bed, Erik able somehow to navigate round the chair and various obstacles on the floor without opening his eyes or breaking off the kissing again (Charles is secretly very impressed). Erik sets him down on the bed and crawls on top of him, still cradling Charles in his arms. Since the only part of Charles currently doing anything is his mouth, his hands are free to wander, and they do – down Erik's back, round his sides and upwards to cover every inch of his chest; then lower to pull the hem of his turtleneck up enough for his hands to slide underneath and touch bare skin.

Erik sucks in a breath through his nose at that, and then pulls back, letting go of Charles, his own hands yanking at the hem of the turtleneck. Charles tries to refrain from drooling at the way Erik's whole torso stretches as his arms pull the garment over his head; he isn't entirely successful, but who cares when Erik's bare chest is free for his hands to roam over? Erik gets to work on Charles's shirt, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of his skin that is revealed as more buttons are worked open.

Finally, after some fumbling and kissing and groaning and limbs all over the place, they are both gloriously naked. Erik eases his weight onto Charles and kisses him again, slowly and full of intent. Charles, not knowing what Erik wants and not one to leave things alone, pushes all of his medical notes into Erik's head, x-rays and scans showing the extent of the damage to his spine; he shows him the experiments he's done in the privacy of his room (Erik shudders at those memories); <<some feeling in the pelvis, no feeling below the hips, erection possible, prostate stimulation quite good>>

<<What does that all mean?>> Erik wants to know, tracing the edge of Charles's jaw with his mouth.

<<It means – if you want to be in me, and I'd like that, then we can make this work>>

Erik stops mouthing at his neck and simply looks at him; his pupils are blown completely, and through their mental connection Charles can hear <<how have I not come already, he's going to kill me, oh god>>

He feels a little smug at that, and slides his hands down to grab Erik's ass.

“Are you-- are you sure, Charles?” Erik asks out loud, his voice husky.

“Yes,” is his simple (slightly breathy) reply, and Erik swallows visibly, exhaling shakily and resting his forehead against Charles's. Under the roar of lust and pleasure and delight, Erik's mind whispers <<love you love you love you>> and <<always want to be like this, wanted it to be you, always always always>> and, more faintly, but no less sincere, <<home home this is home>>

The next few moments are a blur, as Erik tries to kiss him everywhere at once, and Charles's hands can't decide which part of Erik they want to feel, and then Erik is breathing harshly and asking Charles if he's alright. Charles doesn't understand why until-- oh, Erik has covered his fingers with something (<<vaseline>> Erik's mind supplies) and is slipping them round and over the puckered skin of his hole.

Charles can't feel it except through Erik's mind, can't feel anything until Erik's fingers brush over his prostate and sparks seem to light up behind his eyes. He clutches at Erik, begging him for more, but Erik shushes him and whispers, “no, liebling, I don't want to tear you,” and Charles almost cries.

After what seems like an eternity, Erik slicks himself up and grits out, “Charles, _feel_ ”; Charles dives into his mind and, from Erik's point of view, feels what it's like to press into his own body, tight and hot and perfect. If Charles hadn't already decided that no way in hell was he coming before Erik did, he probably would've done it then.

It doesn't take long for either of them; Erik only has to thrust into him a few times before he's coming, his pleasure twisting through his mind and body, setting crackles of electricity racing up Charles's spine and he too is completely, totally, undone.

His mind spins outwards as he comes, soaring high into the sky, dancing among the stars.

~~~~

Later, after Charles has come back to himself; after a wrung-out Erik has lurched off the bed to the nightstand in search of a washcloth; after Erik cleans both of them up, efficient even though his hands are shaking; after he unceremoniously drops the washcloth down the side of the bed and burrows back under the bed covers; Charles finds himself lying flat on his back. He tries not to lie in one position for too long – bedsores are undignified and painful – but at the moment he doesn't care; Erik is plastered against his side, one long arm draped over his stomach, the other under his back (and high enough up that he can feel it). Erik's head is resting on his shoulder, giving Charles the chance to run his hand through his hair; it's as soft as he imagined.

“How long?” Charles murmurs.

Erik twists his head round enough to rest his chin on Charles's chest; Charles strokes the side of his face, feeling the slight brush of stubble. “You showed me that you've loved me for a while, but-- how long?” Charles clarifies.

Erik's face takes on a thoughtful look; even without the aid of his telapathy, Charles can practically _hear_ the gears of that marvellous mind turning, testing and measuring and remembering. “Since you showed me the memory of my mother,” Erik says finally. His eyes are far away, and sad.

“But Charles, I didn't-- I wouldn't let anything stop me from finding Shaw. Even knowing that I loved you wasn't enough to take away the anger. It wasn't until you were lying in the hospital that I realised what it meant, to love someone. I thought maybe it was too late then.”

He's quiet for another minute before he adds, “all the love in the world won't take away what I did to you.”

Charles can't let him think like that for another minute and kisses him. <<No, no, please Erik, you have nothing to keep doing this.. this _penance_ for. It was an accident, and it's over. Please. I love you. Don't think like that. I love you. >>

Erik's hand runs down his side; they don't speak for a long time, but it doesn't seem to matter.

~~~~

A few weeks later, Charles rolls into Erik's room in search of the man himself for no reason at all and comes to an abrupt halt; there are signs of things being packed, drawers pulled out and wardrobe doors open. Cold panic settles in Charles's stomach and he blurts out, on spotting Erik emerging from underneath the side of the bed nearest the window, “you're leaving?!”

Erik looks startled, frowns and answers, “what? No. Why would I be leaving?” Some of Charles's panic must leak through the mental connection that is always open between them now, because Erik's expression changes; he throws the sock he's holding onto the bed and crosses the room to kneel beside Charles, one hand resting against his cheek.

“Charles, no,” he says softly. “I'm not leaving.”

Charles's lip makes a valiant attempt not to wobble when he sniffs and replies, in a small voice, “but you're packing.” Erik chuckles and says, “well of course I'm packing, I'm moving into your room,” like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh.”

“Charles,” Erik sighs, “I don't want to leave. I _can't_ leave. _You_ are here, and where you are, I must also be.”

Charles can't speak past the lump in his throat, but he lets Erik know what he thinks by kissing him soundly. He potters around the room as Erik packs clothes and books into boxes (with metal strips round them, Charles notices, and thinks fondly to himself that Erik is a great believer in working smarter, rather than harder); eventually, everything is organised, and there are no personal touches left in the room. Only Erik's desk remains, and it's owner is chewing his lip as he looks at it thoughtfully.

“I don't know what to do with it. It won't fit in your room.”

“How do you know?”

“I measured it.”

“Hmm.”

They consider the problem for another minute before the solution forms in Charles's mind; he can't believe he didn't think of it sooner.

“Put it in the study.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “In your study?”

“ _Our_ study,” Charles corrects him. “You work alongside me every day already. I think I'll enjoy seeing you when you're marking a pile of essays on Proust and cursing in several languages.”

The corner of Erik's mouth quirks upwards, but he agrees to Charles's suggestion. He begins floating the boxes upwards and out into the corridor, leaving Charles sitting in the middle of an empty room musing about change.

When Erik comes back, Charles sighs at him, “It's a pity we can't move your bed as well. It's very comfortable.”

“But yours,” Erik answers with a wicked grin, “is made of metal.”

Charles thinks back to the night before, when Erik had proved how very useful a bed made out of metal could be, and decides that Erik's reasoning is sound. He rather likes the decorative swirls and whorls that seem to have appeared on the frame over the last few weeks.

Erik challenges Charles to race him to the study, pointing out that navigating the desk round the mansion will be as much of a challenge as Charles moving at speed in his chair. As it happens, Sean corners Charles as he careers round a corner, and when he gets to the study, Erik is entertaining some of the younger children by making the desk dance in mid-air. When he catches sight of Charles rolling over the threshold, he winks at him, and inwardly Charles marvels at Erik ever being relaxed enough to do things like _wink_ at anyone.

The children are chased away, and the furniture is rearranged, and finally they take a step back to survey their handiwork; Charles's desk is at right angles to the window now, so he can see the roses; Erik's desk is opposite his, so they can see each other.

Charles slides his hand into Erik's, quoting softly, “And at home by the fire, whenever you look up there I shall be— and whenever I look up, there will be you.”

“Hardy was a cynic, Charles, I didn't think you'd ever quote _him_.”

“'Far from the Madding Crowd' has a happy ending.”

“Boldwood goes mad.”

“But Bathsheba and Gabriel find true love. The real kind, that eases the aches in your muscles, and makes you smile at the end of a long day.”

He's not talking about the novel; Erik understands.

~~~~

For all that Charles has accepted and is used to life in a wheelchair, he still finds himself weary of it sometimes. Today is such a day, and when evening comes, he runs himself a bath, sinking into it with relief and letting the ache of his muscles seep out into the bathwater. He relaxes, letting his mind run everywhere and nowhere, and is so absorbed in working out the kinks in a problem Hank had brought to his attention earlier that he doesn't notice anyone else in the bathroom until a voice says, right in his ear, “room for one more?”

He starts, splashing a bit in surprise, his eyes flying open and-- oh lord, Erik is standing in his bathroom completely naked. Charles grins, saying “of course” as he leans down to pull his knees up in the water, and then reach for the handles on the edge of the bath to pull himself forward. Erik slides in behind him; after a minute or two of rearrangement, Charles luxuriates in lithe limbs on either side of him, and a broad chest to lean against. Erik's arms wrap around his waist, his chin resting on Charles's shoulder. They sit that way for a long time; something is bothering Erik, and Charles doesn't press, just lets his own feelings of contentment wash over Erik. Erik's even exhales ghost across Charles's shoulder, raising goosebumps.

Erik breathes in, tilts his head and mumbles into the side of Charles's neck, “I don't know how I can be lucky enough to have this.” Charles leans his head back on Erik's shoulder and breathes out, “oh sweetheart”, the endearment slipping out unintentionally. He twists his head sideways to nuzzle at Erik's jaw, saying, “ _I'm_ the lucky one.”

“I love you so much,” Erik whispers.

Erik is not only a very unsentimental man, but very private too. Even though he feels things deeply, he does not believe in giving expression to those things, preferring actions to words. So when he whispers secrets into Charles's skin, Charles is unbelievably touched, hoarding these rare little moments and cherishing them.

He reaches up an arm to pull Erik's face down to meet his, kissing him as best he can at the awkward angle. Erik's arms tighten round him a little more, like a promise.

Charles lets Erik dry them both off and carry him to bed.

~~~~

1st January 1964

 

Snow blankets the outside world, dampening everything beyond Westchester. Charles comes awake slowly, light spilling into the room through the chink in the curtains. His mind flexes and expands before he reins it back in; everything is quiet this morning, and it gives Charles time to orientate himself to where he is and what day it is.

It's New Years Day, he realises, the start of a new year. 1964 seems to stretch out in front of him, like a road disappearing over the horizon.

Charles stretches and rolls onto his back, thinking about the hundred things he needs to attend to today; Hank needs an answer on where to put the exit for the jet from its underground hangar; Alex needs some guidance on how to explain the-birds-and-the-bees to Scott; Charles is sure Raven will demand his attention about _something_ ; Erik has information about a potential government recruitment venture, focusing on mutants, and a lab that they've heard worrying things about somewhere in Delaware.

The future has never looked so bright, nor so terrifying. Charles recognises that at some point, and soon, the public will need to be made aware of their presence here as something more than a school for the gifted. If Erik's information is correct (and Charles is certain that it is), then the government is taking a greater interest in mutants, and Charles has no intention of letting them anywhere near the mansion, regardless of their motives. Who knows how the outside world will react? With the effects of McCarthy's anti-communist agenda still lingering, and the assassination of the man that Charles hoped would be on their side, the world seems a little more ugly.

And yet-- the occupants of the mansion are more than capable of defending and protecting themselves, regardless of the circumstances. They stand on the side of the argument that says there is no reason why humans and mutants cannot peacefully co-exist; they hold the moral high ground.

Everyone is still asleep, their dreams drifting through Charles's consciousness. When they wake up, their concerns will be breakfast and, no doubt, a snowball fight.

Charles looks at the pillow next to his; Erik is still sleeping, his face younger, almost vulnerable.

He brushes a fingertip over Erik's lips and watches him smile.

 

Everything's going to be fine.

 

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> The Christopher Isherwood novel given to Charles as a birthday present is 'Down There on a Visit', published in 1962.


End file.
